Diplomat's Duty
by Tischen
Summary: Arya loves Eragon because she must. A pragmatic approach to Arya and Eragon's relationship. Takes place in Eldest, during Eragon's stay in Ellesméra. Oneshot. Inspired by "The Other Paris" by Mavis Gallant. Reviews appreciated.


If any elven soul had asked Arya at what point in time she had fallen in love, or how she and Eragon and chosen each other as mates, she would have imagined in her mind, quite clearly, a scene under the Menoa Tree, involving moonlight, the sweet melodies of Ellesméra, twelve bushels of roses, and the misty backdrop of Du Weldenvarden. This was what everyone expected of her, and Arya had nearly believed in it herself.

Actually, Eragon had confessed his love for her in the midst of his lesson with Oromis, handing over flattering fairth of likeness. After class, they had gone to her room for a cup of tea. He and Arya had met barely four months ago, and their conversations, up until then, dealt mainly with how best to kill urgals and defeat the Empire.

Arya was a hundred and three, and no one had shown any romantic interest in her before, except a friend by the name of Faolin, who was shortly slain by an indifferent arrow through the neck. She was under the impression that an emotion as valuable as love should never go to waste, so she reciprocated at once, kissing Eragon deeply on the lips. He had celebrated by opening up a bottle of dwarvern mead. Both would have preferred some faelnirv for a more symbolic commemoration, but each felt too awkward to suggest it.

The fact that Arya was not in love with Eragon did not dismay her in the least. From a series of lessons administrated to her by her own mother, she had learned that a shared goal, such as a desire to overthrow Galbatorix, was a solid foundation for happiness, and that the illusion of love was a lie cultivated by a hopelessly romantic faction of elves. Immortality, robust political influence, prowess on the battlefield - these were the pillars of an elven union.

Islanzadi had repeatedly extolled to her the benefits of mating with Eragon. And though she was reluctant to admit it, the plan was an incredibly shrewd diplomatic maneuver. This was the man who would one day rule Alagaësia, her mother had declared. He was practically an elf anyway. And Arya, heir to the throne, would have him right under her thumb. When she had protested, citing the fact that she felt absolutely nothing for Eragon, Islanzadi had reprimanded her for being so shallow. How dare she be so picky when the entire elven nation was relying on her.

After staring long and hard at the Yawë on her shoulder, Arya knew in her heart what she must do. It was a diplomat's duty. Eragon and Arya's lives were remarkably similar. Both had lost their fathers to the Empire. Both shared a short stint in the same jail in Gil'ead. Both had fought together against the same shade. Surely, they would get along with one another very well, and there was no reason for the relationship to fail.

Arya, with great efficiency, set about her mission of falling in love. Love required a conducive environment to grow - it would wither, exposed to bad weather, or cramped in the clausterphobic dwarvern cities. Indeed, Arya rated the chances of falling for Eragon in a sketchy inn while running from the Empire after assasinating the Ra'zac between zero and nil. But provided some good weather, a pair of kindred minds only had to sit back and relax to see their romance blossom. All spring she had looked for these conditions in Ellesméra. When, at first, nothing happened, Arya blamed it on the roof of leaves which obscured the bright sunlight. At one point, Angela gave her a strange mushroom which she claimed would cause her to fall in love instantly, but Arya turned it down, preferring to let ardor grow at its own pace.

Eragon had no idea of any of this. He had nearly been shaking in fear when he had handed over the fairth, half expecting Arya to shatter the portrait into a thousand shards, and when she had confessed her love for him, he spent the next few days alternating between a state of numbness of self-congratulation.

Before she had embaced him, Eragon had often felt lonely, a melancholy he had blamed on the destruction of his childhood home, the death of his closest family, and the unrealistic expecations everyone had of him. This alone would not have compelled him to find a companion until he was seriously unsettled by a offhand comment by Saphira, who reminded him how truly alone in the world they were, feared by humans, mistrusted by dwarves, and manipulated as pawns by kings and queens. He understood at once, and was deeply moved. So, when he had, through an unlikely series of events, rescued Arya like a mythical princess from the tallest tower of a castle, her pretty face had captured his attention at once, and he was completely infatuated. Poor Eragon never had a chance.


End file.
